You Do Something Crazy To Me
by petrelli heiress
Summary: Peter and Sylar live together. This is a fact. Whether they're in a romantic relationship is a matter of opinion. At first, anyway. Sappy fluff with a dollop of crack.


**You Do Something Crazy To Me**

**Characters/Pairings: Peter/Sylar, implied Claire/Gretchen and Matt/Mohinder, Noah Bennet, (very tiny mentions of) Sylar/Claire and Peter/Emma, Hesam/Emma, Micah**

**Author's Note: Where is all this fluff coming from? *cracks whip* Back, fluff, back, I say! Also, DO NOT BLAME ME FOR THE SAPPY HAPPINESS OF THIS FIC – BLAME MY BRAIN! IT FORCED ME! And this sappy, sappy fic is dedicated to my Dad, who – although he will most likely never read this – gave me an idea when I'd written myself into a corner. Title comes from the song "Something Crazy" by Lady Gaga. **

**Author's Note #2: One day I'm going to write a fic that shows in great detail that Sylar is a bad, bad man who does bad, bad things, and where he and Peter have lots of violent fights, followed by some good ole violent sex. Today is not that day. **

**Warnings/Spoilers: Slash. Het. Femslash. Fluff. Crack. Oblivious people. AU (yes, because apparently someone who should be dead is actually alive). Domesticity. Voyeurism, slight mentions of. Sexual references (some involving blindfolds). More fluff. A whole lot more fluff, like wow. Lots of kissing, again like wow. What could be slapstick humour. (Very) Low level violence. Very vague spoilers for some of volume 5 (blink, and you might miss them). **

**Disclaimer: Heroes, I own it not. If I did, it would be a sappy, sappy show full of sappiness (if this fic is anything to go by), and as the show is definitely not like this, I obviously don't own it. So there. That being said, this fanfic was written for entertainment, not profit. And so it goes.**

* * *

Peter and Sylar lived together. This was a fact.

They fought over who had used the last of the milk/cereal/hot water/hair product/insert appropriate item here. They shared household chores. They alternated between washing and drying the dishes. These were all facts.

They usually shared the bed, as it was big enough for two and then some. There was almost always a wall of pillows between them whenever they slept on the bed together. Again, these are facts.

Convenient, they would say.

Everyone who knew their sleeping arrangements (numbering at the current time, two, and only because they had barged into their apartment in the dead of night, screaming bloody murder) thought they were in denial. Everyone who didn't know these seemingly innocent sleeping arrangements all had very effective imaginations. In short, they jumped to a conclusion.

Claire, when she wasn't desperately trying to discover the existence of brain bleach with the help of a reluctant Mohinder (hey, he's a scientist – if anyone would know, he would), described them as teeth-achingly sweet. Gretchen always laughed when she did, because of the look on her face, as though she was getting a tooth pulled. Without anaesthesia, regeneration or the idea of pain = normal. Gretchen, if pressed, would agree with Claire's assessment. There was just no other explanation, when confronted by all the apparent facts (clouded by her opinion, obviously). Teeth-achingly sweet was just right. Sometimes when they were in the room together she would have the urge to go "Awwww!" but squashed it because Sylar was still a little scary even now and Peter had a sharp temper on him.

Mohinder thought they were surprisingly mature, although he always expected them to just stop this charade and start going at it right there in front of everyone. He admitted, after much retrospection, that he wouldn't mind if this happened. However, if it did, he would look appropriately shocked and cover his eyes (all the while peeking through his fingers). Matt just shook his head. Being a telepath (and also one of only two people to have walked in on them in bed with a pillow wall between them), he knew exactly what was going on, and it wasn't as exciting as Mohinder thought. If Matt had been up to matchmaking, he would have dabbled a bit, but because his eye tended to twitch whenever he so much as thought about Peter, Sylar or any combinations thereof, he usually thought, "Let them sort that shit out," and washed his hands of the whole affair.

Noah (being, well, himself and also the only other person to have seen the Pillow Wall) ignored it. Sylar wasn't murdering people. Sylar wasn't attacking/attempting to flirt with/making inappropriate gestures toward Claire. Peter wasn't taking unnecessary risks with a police scanner. Peter was making friends with people outside their little circle of specials and the people who loved them. Life, according to Noah, was good. If a romantic relationship between the respective parties had resulted in this goodness, then so much the better (mostly because this would mean Sylar would stop his attacks/attempts to flirt with/inappropriate gestures toward Claire, and apparently that had been the case). It wasn't any of his business anyway.

Peter and Sylar had no idea their friends/acquaintances/former bitter enemies thought they were in a romantic relationship. They weren't. This was a fact. So what if Peter never actually went on a date, even after Emma had given him many instances of the _come hither _eyes. So what if Sylar sometimes made dinner and always felt some semblance of pride whenever Peter approved of the meal (which was, well, all the time). So what if Peter's gifts to him – always given at odd times, and never when the calendar said he was supposed to – were usually books he knew the other man liked, and occasionally a watch for Sylar to take apart and put back together again. So what if Sylar's gifts in return – given at even stranger times, usually when Peter had come off a particularly difficult shift and needed cheering up – were comic books, both rare and common issues, and once, a miniature sledgehammer.

By themselves, they meant nothing – the behaviour of friends, no more. Facts.

Put together, it was hard for their friends/acquaintances/former bitter enemies not to jump to conclusions, however grievously mistaken these conclusions were.

On a sunny morning in late spring, the facts changed.

Months ago now, Peter had grudgingly agreed to share the bed, the sofa being far too horrible to inflict on anyone, even Sylar. They had come to a mutual agreement, a compromise, if you will. As long as there was a wall of pillows and as many cushions as Peter owned between them, they could share the bed. Of course there were times when one of them forgot to arrange the pillows, but this was usually due to fatigue after a trying day and the other would automatically let it slide.

On this particular morning, the sun streaming through the tiny gap between the curtains, the pillow wall had not been built between them. The night before Sylar had been sprawled across half of the bed, lying on his stomach, his head buried in his pillow. Peter, having come off a particularly trying shift, hadn't felt like putting in any unnecessary effort and so had just collapsed onto the bed, falling asleep in an instant.

Perhaps he would have been more cautious if he had been aware of the state he would awaken in. Perhaps not.

Sylar's arm was flung across his waist, his nose pressed into the side of Peter's neck. Peter's leg was caught between both of Sylar's, his hand curled into a rather uncomfortable position against Sylar's chest. Peter woke to an eyeful of hair, a cramped hand and the odd feeling of complete and utter relaxation and comfort, instantly mixed with embarrassment as he realised exactly where he was.

Oh.

Sylar shifted slightly. His arm tightened around Peter's waist and he mumbled something against Peter's skin, the feel of lips and warm breath making Peter shudder a little and close his eyes.

Oh.

Peter tried to move his hand without waking Sylar, to get it into a better, less cramped position. His fingers clutched at Sylar's t-shirt, trying to pull him closer, again without waking him. He only achieved an inch before Sylar mumbled against his skin again and he stilled. He stayed that way for a full five minutes, having managed to catch sight of the bedside clock enough to watch the minutes tick by, before he closed his eyes and settled back into a dreamless sleep.

Almost exactly an hour later, Sylar woke. One of Peter's legs was wedged between both of his. Sylar's arm was wrapped tightly around Peter's waist. Peter's hand was clutched in his t-shirt. Sylar woke to an eyeful of neck, one hand clutching at t-shirt and some skin, the other numb because he was lying on top of it. He tried to shift and pull it free, shaking it slightly to return the feeling to it in the little space there was between their bodies. He eventually, after some hesitation, rested it over the hand Peter had clutched in his t-shirt.

Impulsively, he pressed a kiss to Peter's neck, grinning against the skin as Peter mumbled something into his hair and moved closer. The hand clutching his t-shirt tightened its grip, and Sylar grazed a thumb along one side of the hand before closing his eyes and – despite the fact that it was Tuesday and there was work that needed to be done – drifting back to sleep.

Exactly five minutes later the alarm blared, waking them both. Sylar frowned before pulling back slightly in order to better look up at Peter, who looked unsure of both himself and the situation they found themselves in. Sylar's hand impulsively tightened over the hand Peter had clutched in his t-shirt, and he smiled a little as Peter slowly relaxed.

"Well," Peter said.

Sylar nodded, before he moved so that they were now face to face, rather than face to neck. He hesitated, because seriously he had never been in a situation like this before, in bed with and wrapped up in his best – possibly only – friend. How to proceed? He unconsciously chewed at his bottom lip, his brow furrowing as he frowned.

Peter leaned forward and their lips met. Sylar froze, still hesitating, because any future action would have either good or bad consequences and at the moment he didn't know whether he wanted to risk it. Peter pressed forward, his free hand – wherever that had been – coming up to cup Sylar's cheek, his mouth moving against Sylar's unresponsive one.

Sylar breathed out slowly and kissed back.

The facts changed.

***

Peter gripped Sylar's hand nervously, his palm sweaty. Sylar covered their joined hands with his free hand, giving Peter a reassuring smile, despite the fact that he was as nervous as – if not more than – Peter, because seriously, these people weren't really his friends, and why was he here again? Peter returned his smile. Sylar's heart did a back flip. He told it, in no uncertain terms, that it should stop being so sentimental. He looked at Peter again. His heart did a back flip. Giving the mental sigh of the eternally suffering, he gave up.

Ignoring his stupid, stupid heart (which, at this rate, would probably manage to back flip its way right out of his body, despite this being a physical impossibility), Sylar glanced around, absently giving Peter's hand a squeeze.

No one even glanced their way.

Claire and Mohinder were off in the corner, discussing something that looked very important, heads bent toward each other. Claire occasionally gestured, flailing about with her hands, and Mohinder would look thoughtful, as though the flailing hand gestures had real meaning. If Sylar concentrated, he could probably hear what they were saying, but oddly enough he didn't really give a shit.

Noah and Matt were talking about a recent rash of killings, mostly suffocations, with the victims left hanging upside from tree branches. They were debating on the likelihood of the murderer being a special. Sylar paid this conversation a little bit more attention, thinking almost wistfully of those pre-Peter-and-identity-crises days when these two men would most likely have been discussing him.

Peter's hand moved in his, and Sylar glanced over at him. "Hello," Peter said, smiling lopsidedly at him.

"Hello," Sylar replied, and returned the smile.

Someone coughed, pointedly.

They turned toward the noise. Now, finally, everyone was looking at them. Sylar tried to pinpoint the exact person who had coughed and give them his most frightening glare, but everyone just looked too damned innocent. Not for the first time, he inwardly grumbled about not having added telepathy to his repertoire. He eyed Matt speculatively.

"So," Peter said brightly, his grip on Sylar's hand tightening perceptibly as though he thought Sylar would try to run away from him.

"So," Noah replied gravely, as Matt levelled a glare at Sylar. _Don't you even think about it, cupcake._

"I knew it," Claire breathed, before slumping forward onto the table in front of her, burying her head in her hands. Mohinder gave her an awkward pat on the back, and then brought his attention back to the matter at hand, namely, Peter and Sylar holding hands. His brain tried to compute the image, puttered around a bit, and then decided to shut down, leaving the thinking to be done by anything that wanted the job.

"I see," Noah said.

Peter cleared his throat nervously. Sylar grazed his thumb over Peter's knuckles, rubbing gently, and felt Peter relax slightly. He'd expected a lot of shouting, so the admittedly awkward silence wasn't really bothering him. As long as they didn't try and take Peter away from him, they could bombard him with awkward silences until the apocalypse.

The door opened.

Everyone, grateful for the interruption, turned toward the person who entered. It was Gretchen, who had gone to the bathroom a few minutes ago. Her gaze immediately went to Peter and Sylar, whose hands were clasped as tightly as they had been when she had left. Her gaze then travelled to where Claire was slumped over the table, mumbling comforting nonsense to herself (like, they were making progress on the brain bleach problem) and trying to keep her eyes open in the hopes of not seeing the image of Peter and Sylar holding hands in her head. It didn't really help. She cursed her surprisingly active imagination.

She started as she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find Gretchen staring down at her, a bemused smile on her face. "Teeth-achingly sweet, yeah?" she said.

Claire grimaced, her gaze darting toward the infamous duo before settling back on Gretchen's face. "Kind of," she muttered, and let Gretchen lead her out of the room, but not before she caught the look of disappointment on Peter's face. She gave him a weak thumbs up and he looked almost cheerful. She gave herself a celebratory pat on the back for her third good deed done that day.

Peter stood, pulling Sylar up with him. He cleared his throat. "I think we should go now," he said, rather unnecessarily as he was making his way toward the door as he spoke.

Noah nodded. "Of course." And then, as though nothing much had happened, he turned back to Matt and resumed their conversation. Mohinder, after a full ten minutes had passed, stood up and joined in.

"That went well," Sylar commented as they walked down the street, hand in hand.

Peter shrugged awkwardly. "I guess."

"As well as we can expect anyway," Sylar said, trying to be reassuring even though he hadn't had much practice at doing so. He also seemed to have the urge to fill in the silence, despite the fact that the outside world was trying its darnedest to do that very job. "It'll take them time to adjust..."

"Sylar," Peter said, stopping abruptly in the middle of the pathway. Sylar paused, giving him a slight frown.

"Peter," he replied, wondering at their sudden inability to say no more than one word to each other. Surprising, after that very morning when they had talked about everything and anything that had come to mind.

"I think they already knew," Peter said, sounding unsure of himself.

Sylar stared at him. "How? It only happened this morning."

Peter smiled at him. Sylar's heart did another back flip. He didn't even try to berate it this time. "No, I don't think it did." He paused, and Sylar pulled him closer, frowning ever so slightly. "I think they thought we were...together...when you moved in with me."

Sylar continued to stare at him. Eventually he blinked. "But...I...what..." He blinked again, confused.

Peter closed the remaining distance between them, kissing him.

Sylar breathed out slowly, his grip around Peter tightening as they parted. "If I'd known that they...thought that," he said, somewhat breathlessly, "I would have done this months ago."

"No." Peter shook his head. "You could never make the first move. Not with me."

Sylar looked momentarily insulted , as though what Peter had said was an affront to his manhood. He opened his mouth to say something biting and witty (oh yes, very) when Peter kissed him again. He put his mouth to better use after that.

"Because you're," Peter said between kisses, "not a good man, but you're at least a patient one." Sylar felt the scenery shift in his peripheral vision, as though they had moved while standing still, but was too distracted to really care. He only realised what Peter had done when Peter broke the kiss and pushed him down onto the bed.

Sylar gazed up at Peter, surprised, and – although he wouldn't admit it, because there'd be no point – a little hurt that Peter didn't think he was trying to be as good as he could be (admittedly his thoughts did give him away at times, mostly when Peter had telepathy, if he was any judge). "What are you talking about, Peter?" he said, for something to say, trying to sound in control of the situation because, damn it, he was Sylar, he was supposed to be the one...

Peter straddled him and leaned down to kiss him. Sylar stopped thinking. "You have _no idea _how tempted I've been these past few months," Peter growled softly, moving his hips enough to make Sylar gasp and arch up toward him. "Sharing a bed, having that stupid, flimsy pillow wall between us as though that could really stop anything." He leaned down for another kiss, and Sylar used the opportunity to run a hand up Peter's spine, cupping the back of his head with one hand to deepen the kiss while the other hand explored Peter's body more extensively. "And _you, _buying me presents, cooking me dinner, why..." Peter trailed off, unable to continue for the moment with Sylar under him, breathless and gorgeous and _his_.

In the back of his mind, Sylar knew this was an important moment and so tried to rattle a few thoughts together into a coherent whole. What he said instead of the brilliant and amazingly witty piece he had in mind was, "I'll buy you more presents, I'll cook you dinner every night, I'll do anything for you, Peter, just please don't stop." _Don't ever stop, _a part of him continued silently, as yet another part of him winced at how vulnerable he sounded, how needy, how _weak_.

Peter kissed him, soft and sweet, and he thought half-heartedly about taking control of the situation, turning the kiss vicious, drawing blood and screams from Peter's beautiful mouth. His eyes opened with an almost audible snap as he heard Peter whisper silently, _Maybe later_, and couldn't hold onto the moan that escaped him. _For now, _Peter continued to whisper in his head, fingers fumbling at Sylar's belt, _let's do it my way. _

_For now, _Sylar whispered back, his inner voice a whole lot more dark and seductive than his physical one, which was mewing and making other pathetic sounding noises. He heard Peter chuckle.

***

Sylar stared up at the ceiling, the blankets pulled up under his arms. Peter lay beside him, propped up on his elbow. Sylar found the ceiling so fascinating he didn't even turn to look when Peter asked, "Have you ever done that before?"

"No," Sylar said, and then slowly turned his head to look at Peter.

Peter leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Sylar's shoulder. "Me neither." Sylar visibly relaxed, turning over so that they were now face to face. Peter grinned at him, his thumb grazing over Sylar's mouth. "Best you've ever had?"

"Not by a long shot."

"Hey!" Peter attempted to give Sylar's shoulder a push, smiling like last night hadn't been the most painfully awkward night of his life. Sylar grabbed at the hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. He smiled as Peter's breath stuttered and looked up into Peter's brown eyes. Peter trailed a hand over Sylar's bicep and forearm, before entangling their fingers.

"We'll get it right," Peter said, and then grinned slyly. "Eventually."

Sylar raised an eyebrow. "Eventually," he repeated slowly, savouring the word. He smirked when he noticed Peter give an almost imperceptible shiver at his words. He leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, now savouring the taste of Peter in his mouth, a taste that wasn't dissimilar to any of the other kisses he'd had before – the same things were there, mouth, saliva, tongue – and yet the novelty was that it was _Peter _he was kissing. He wondered if the novelty would ever wear off.

He drew Peter into his arms, deepening the kiss, letting his hands wander, running his fingers through Peter's hair, up and down his spine, craving the feel of every inch of Peter's skin. Peter's hands were seemingly everywhere on him, almost driving him mad with need. He needed everything, anything, nothing more than this, all at once. He pulled Peter even closer, so that they were now flush against one another, no spare space between them. Someone moaned, and he honestly couldn't tell whether he had, or whether it had been Peter. Maybe both.

Peter pushed Sylar onto his back and straddled him, all without breaking the kiss or lessening its intensity. Peter's head was fuzzy, his ability to tell up from down, right from wrong, good from bad, left from right shot to hell, and he honestly couldn't care less. Even though last night hadn't gone splendidly, and they probably wouldn't be talking about it for a long time to come, kissing Sylar – just _kissing _him – felt so right, and so amazing, there simply must be a way for them to get it right.

There was a part of him – a very small part, easily squashed – that insisted this was a very bad idea, and would only lead to much misery and suffering all around, because anything involving Sylar – whether reformed or not – would obviously involve the previously mentioned misery and suffering. The rest of him frankly didn't give a shit. He had spent so long ignoring this because of that small part of him, closing himself off from how good it would feel. He wouldn't ignore it anymore, and anyway – he moaned as Sylar sucked his bottom lip into his mouth – he didn't really think he'd be able to, not after giving in, not after _this. _

The alarm blared, and they froze, Peter's eyes snapping open to stare down into Sylar's equally as surprised eyes. Peter pulled away and Sylar followed him, propping himself up on his hands. They stared at each other until Peter kissed him, hard and hot and passionate, hands cupping Sylar's face in a fierce grip, before scrambling off the bed and into the bathroom, leaving Sylar to give the open door a confused look. The doorway looked back at him, expressionless.

Peter appeared moments later, a toothbrush dangling from one corner of his mouth. As Sylar watched, he made his way over to the closet and began sorting through the clothes he would wear to work. Every so often he would stop and move the toothbrush around his mouth. Sylar turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow in order to get a better, longer-lasting look. His gaze took in every movement, every gesture, as Peter pulled on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt before running his fingers through his hair, as though that would actually fix anything. Sylar's eyes followed him as he made his way back into the bathroom, to drop off the toothbrush and rinse his mouth out.

Sylar sat up and waited. Eventually Peter returned, immediately jumping on the bed and crawling up it. Sylar met him half way, hands gripping Peter's waist and pulling him closer. Peter tasted like their toothpaste now, all fresh and pepperminty, and Sylar felt as though he could drown in it, if only they had enough time.

"Stay," he mumbled against Peter's mouth.

Peter groaned, deepening the kiss before abruptly pulling away. Sylar gave him his best hurt puppy look, in case it had any effect. Peter smiled and pressed their foreheads together, breathing out slowly. Sylar closed his eyes and his hand came up to cup Peter's cheek. He tried not to look too smug, even though the hurt puppy look always worked.

"I was late yesterday," Peter said, softly. He gave Sylar a rueful smile. "I can't be late today as well."

"Yes, you can," Sylar said, even though he was already pulling away.

Peter gave him a brilliant, blinding smile, and Sylar thought it was almost worth not having any more kisses (for the time being anyway). Peter kissed him again, this time only a light press of lips before he was off the bed and out the door. Sylar stared after him and then, ever so slowly, fell back onto the bed. He gazed up at the ceiling and sighed. It just wasn't as fascinating as it once was.

***

Peter examined the glass. Eventually he said, with a rather long suffering sigh, "I think we need new glasses. This one's chipped as well." He placed it on the table and then glanced over at Sylar, who raised an eyebrow.

"I'll go buy some tomorrow while you're at work then," Sylar said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." Peter opened the fridge. "We're out of milk."

"And whose fault is that?"

Peter glared at him. "Shut up." After a brief pause he added, "Put it on the list."

Sylar gave a rather mocking salute before writing it down, leaving the word to join its fellows on the white, lined notepaper. Peter watched him as he did so and then – almost without thinking – walked around the table, stopping just short of the other man. Sylar turned his head, frowning, to see what he wanted. He blinked, surprised, as Peter leaned down and kissed him, hard. He twisted around on the stool and drew Peter into his arms, spreading his legs so Peter could come even closer.

"I'm sorry I didn't get more milk," Peter said softly, now kissing the corner of his mouth, before leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his jaw line.

"Fuck the milk," Sylar gasped, his grip around Peter tightening, his legs moving to wrap themselves around Peter's waist. "Also," he said as something somewhat unrelated occurred to him, "we need more soap."

Peter's hand flailed about before grasping the pen and piece of paper. He scribbled something onto the paper, blindly, so it was most likely scrawled across every other word and illegible to boot. "There," he said, his voice slightly muffled as he nibbled on Sylar's earlobe. "You happy now?"

"Perfectly," Sylar replied before grasping Peter's face between his two hands and bringing their mouths together again. "To think," he said, breaking the kiss to take in a great gulp of air, as Peter tried unsuccessfully to climb into his lap without tipping him off the stool. "We used to spend so much time hating each other, when we could so easily have been doing this."

Peter spared a thought for how the hell Sylar could be so talkative at a time like this, and then he managed to accomplish the difficult feat of climbing into Sylar's lap, using telekinesis to keep them both upright. It felt a bit uncomfortable, and he hadn't really wanted to resort to using any of their abilities, since it meant he had to concentrate on something other than just kissing.

"Sylar," Peter said, and Sylar stared at him, like maybe he'd done or said something wrong. "Please stop talking." Sylar's grin took his breath away, and for a moment he didn't know how to proceed or why exactly he'd told Sylar to stop talking. His telekinetic controls slipped and Sylar fell backwards, taking Peter with him.

"Ow," Sylar said, even though the word didn't really cover it.

Peter sat up, discovered the stool was somehow impairing his ability to do anything and kicked it away. It skittered across the floor and hit the wall. A picture hanging just above it wobbled and then fell, its glass shattering on impact. Peter bowed his head and felt like a prize idiot.

"Ow," Sylar said again, propping himself up on one elbow in order to rub the back of his head. Peter lifted his head, lips parting slightly, looking so worried Sylar felt that he should exaggerate the extent of his pain, just so Peter could continue stroking his face as softly, as gently as he was. "It hurts," he said, deciding to put his plan into effect.

Peter pressed light, butterfly kisses over every inch of Sylar's face, murmuring something that sounded a lot like "I'm sorry" but could easily have been anything. He slowly lay back onto the floor and turned to capture Peter's mouth as Peter tried to kiss the corner of his mouth. There was something heady about kissing Peter, something that turned his brain into mush, because normally he wouldn't act like this, so needy and desperate and willing to exaggerate pain. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. He didn't care.

The door opened, because of course it would, Sylar thought with disgust. They stopped kissing immediately. Sylar stared at the intruder, and upside down it took him a moment to recognise whoever it was, their mouth open and closing like a fish. He sighed and glanced at Peter, who gave him a rueful smile before standing and giving Sylar a hand up.

"Emma," Peter said, giving her a small wave.

"Peter," she said, looking embarrassed at having interrupted them. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were..." Her eyes flickered over to Sylar, and then back to Peter, and then over to where the picture had fallen to the floor, surrounded by broken glass and a tipped over stool. She jumped to a conclusion, and went bright red. "...busy," she finished.

There was an awkward silence. Sylar stared at the floor, which was suddenly as fascinating as the ceiling used to be. It also needed to be cleaned. He absently added that to the list.

"Um, Emma," Peter said, trying to sound cheerful and very much not awkward. He succeeded on the cheerful part. "What brings you here?"

She pointed out the door. "Hesam and I were wondering if you wanted to go out for drinks tonight," she said. Her gaze flickered back over to Sylar.

Sylar glanced up and met Peter's gaze. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Rain check?" Peter said.

***

It was raining. Sylar liked the rain, and the sound it made pitter pattering against the windows. He closed his eyes, leaning back in the armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, and simply listened. He did this a lot when Peter was at work. Not that he didn't have his own work to get on with – he occasionally fixed watches, because it was soothing and kept his mind occupied, and sometimes Noah visited, to ask for his opinion on this or that ability, all the while giving him blank, but still ever so slightly suspicious looks. He enjoyed winding Noah up, because those looks annoyed him greatly.

Sylar opened his eyes, deciding to change position. He turned himself around and flung his legs over one arm of the chair, nestling his head on the other. It wasn't necessarily the most comfortable position, but it grew steadily more comfortable as time went on.

When the door opened, he twisted his head around to see who it was, although he already knew. He smiled, moving to sit in the proper manner you should sit in a chair. "You're home," he said, still smiling.

"Way to state the obvious," Peter said, closing the door behind him. He dropped his bag immediately and made his way over to Sylar, who pulled him down into his lap as soon as he was close enough. Peter was wet and shivering slightly, and the dampness of his clothes started to soak into Sylar's as soon as they touched, but Sylar didn't really care all that much. "It's raining," he said, leaning forward to lick at Peter's mouth, lapping up the scant few raindrops that had collected there.

Peter laughed, breathlessly. "I gathered," he said, sighing a little at the light kisses Sylar was bestowing on him. He pressed forward to capture Sylar's mouth, keeping him there, deepening the kiss, loving the touch of Sylar's hands, so warm he could feel them through his jacket and shirt combined.

They pulled apart, panting, and pressed their foreheads together. "We should get you out of these clothes," Sylar murmured, and Peter hummed in amused agreement. Sylar took that as consent and immediately pushed Peter's jacket off his shoulders, before starting to unbutton his shirt. "You're wet," he said, sending the shirt to join the jacket in a crumpled heap on the ground.

"Yeah," Peter said softly, arching into the touch of Sylar's warm, warm hands all over him. Sylar tried to stand up, with Peter in his arms, but sat back down almost instantly, with a disappointed huff.

"You're heavy," Sylar said.

Peter laughed at him. "I'm guess I am," he said, sitting up in Sylar's lap to give him enough room to reach the zipper on his jeans. In a silence of breaths held and pitter pattering rain, they both watched as Sylar's fingers pulled the zipper down, and then Peter was moving, moving, pulling them down and off, throwing them on the floor, before resuming his position on Sylar's lap.

Sylar's breath was warm against his skin as he mouthed kisses up Peter's throat and licked into his mouth. Their kisses turned long, languid, slow, exploring. Sylar's fingers grazed over Peter's cheek, traced a pattern around the shell of his ear, giving particular attention to every inch of skin they could find, before they twisted around strands of Peter's hair. Peter wanted this to go on forever – them kissing to the soundtrack of the rain outside and their breathless pants inside.

Sylar broke the kiss, taking in great gasps of air, and then moaned softly as Peter pushed him back into the chair, beginning to kiss along his jaw line and down the length of his throat. And then Peter pulled away, stood up, and left Sylar clinging to thin air. He grasped Sylar's hand, entangling their fingers, and pulled him up and into another kiss.

"Maybe we'll get it right this time," Peter mumbled into the kiss, stepping back cautiously in case he walked into anything unawares. Despite being very cautious and only taking tiny steps, he managed to bang into the door frame at least twice before Sylar, laughing softly against his mouth, pushed him onto the correct path, through the doorway and onto the bed.

***

"Where are you taking me?"

With a hand on the small of Peter's back, Sylar guided him through the crowded New York streets. "It's a surprise."

"Well, obviously." Peter's hand automatically went to take off the blindfold, but was stopped by Sylar, who entangled their fingers, effectively keeping the hand occupied. "What I mean is, why are you taking me blindfolded? It's not as if I don't know where we are."

Sylar leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "Next time we have sex, I'm taking you blindfolded." He smirked as Peter shivered, managing to skirt the hand Peter tried to whack him with.

"Don't say things like that!" Peter said, frowning a little as he tried to pull away. Sylar let him, disentangling their fingers, but then he finally saw where exactly Peter was headed and reached out a hand to stop him. "No, Peter, wait..."

Peter walked into a pole. "Ow," he muttered, stepping back and reaching a hand up to rub at his forehead. Sylar couldn't help but laugh at him, which only got him a furious glare in response – although, since he was blindfolded, apparently his shoulder had been the real culprit. His laughter somewhat tempered although by no means gone, Sylar pulled Peter into his arms, kissing his forehead softly.

"There, all better," Sylar said, voice gentle.

Peter shook his head, frowning. He pointed stubbornly at his forehead. "Nope, still hurts."

Sylar bit back another laugh and leaned forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to Peter's forehead, grinning against the skin when he felt Peter shudder in his arms. "Better?"

Peter sighed and pressed light kisses over whatever skin he could find. "Much." He let Sylar take his hand and begin to guide him through the crowded streets again, savouring the feel of Sylar's fingers intertwined with his. He found it odd that he enjoyed holding Sylar's hand so much, second only to kissing him. He loved putting their hands together, palm to palm, and then interlocking their fingers, loved the feel of Sylar's skin against his. This relationship sometimes took his breath away with its simplicity, the idea that Sylar only had to hold his hand to keep his interest. It was weird. It was wonderful. It was strange.

"We're here," Sylar said, abruptly breaking Peter out of his little daydream.

Peter expected him to take the blindfold off immediately and was therefore surprised when Sylar continued to guide him onward. He concentrated on their surroundings and realised Sylar had taken him through a doorway and that they were now walking across what felt like carpet, not pavement. He frowned. "Where exactly is here?" he asked.

He turned his head slightly when Sylar took his hand away, his frown changing into a smile when he felt Sylar start to untie the blindfold. Peter opened his eyes, having closed them because looking at a blindfold for minutes on end had become boring very fast. It took awhile for his eyes to adjust, and at first he thought he was hallucinating, even though this idea was pretty farfetched. He rubbed his eyes, but no, apparently it was real.

A...golf course?

What. Just...what.

He turned slowly around to face Sylar, who was looking simultaneously nervous and proud, obviously trying not to shuffle his feet, or scuff the side of one shoe against what turned out to be a sort of fake green grass, not carpet. Peter tried not to find that adorable, but it was hard going.

Seeing Peter's confused look, Sylar tried to explain. "See, I asked Claire what I should get you, and she just glared at me, like I was an idiot because it was so obvious, and that was no help. So, I asked Bennet and he gave me a strange look and then said golf clubs, and that gave me an idea so...I just ran with it." He stopped abruptly, and then cleared his throat. He avoided Peter's gaze, gesturing at the speaker system, sitting unobtrusively in the corner. "Micah helped with that."

He finally seemed to gather enough courage to look Peter directly in the eye. Peter was giving him an inscrutable look, which just made Sylar duck his head and babble on some more. "Look," he dragged a hand through his hair, "I tried to get you this very rare issue of _9th Wonders_, but I don't know, the last copy was burnt in a fire, and I had to get you something and...yeah." He shrugged helplessly, cursing himself inwardly for being so stupid, and so very pathetic. And also, a _golf course_? He couldn't think of anything better? Daytime TV was rotting his brain, yes, it _was_.

"Oh," Peter breathed, and took a few steps forward until he was close enough to touch Sylar, to draw him into his arms and lift his chin so he could look Sylar directly in the eye. "Oh," he said again, and then moved forward slightly so that their lips met. The kiss started out soft and slow, and Peter draped his arms around Sylar's neck, tangling his fingers through Sylar's hair. Sylar slowly relaxed, and then his hands were everywhere, clutching at Peter, at his hair and his clothing and his skin.

"So do you like it?" Sylar asked later as they sat side by side on one of the benches Sylar had managed to build before getting distracted by all the other far more interestingly shaped things he had to build, looking up at a ceiling dotted with white star shapes.

Peter looked around himself and smiled. "I love it," he said, giving Sylar's hand a squeeze. "That being said, I have no idea how to play golf. My father tried to teach me once but," he shrugged, "I guess it didn't take."

"Well, since in the frenzy of building this, I forgot to buy both golf balls and clubs," Sylar grinned at him, "I doubt that matters."

"So, really, this is just some strange, oddly hilarious park," Peter said, and Sylar, after some thought, nodded.

After a few moment's silence, Peter asked, "Why does that," he pointed at the giant head with its mouth wide open, "look like Noah?"

"Because I really want to throw small round things at his head," Sylar replied, his apparent seriousness making Peter laugh. "I'm serious, Peter," he continued, earnestly, "Stop laughing at me."

"Why should I?" Peter asked, still laughing. He turned and swung his leg over Sylar's lap so that he was straddling him. "You're hilarious." Sylar opened his mouth to argue against this blatant insult and untruth, but was silenced when Peter moved forward and kissed him, hands gently cupping Sylar's face.

"So this is a place we can come to when we don't want to be disturbed?" Peter whispered against Sylar's neck, lips dragging over skin, his fingers fumbling at the buttons of Sylar's shirt.

Sylar nodded, helping Peter take his jacket off. "Micah knows about this place, but he's a good kid. He won't tell."

"He better not," Peter said, drawing Sylar into a hot, sweet kiss. "Now where," he asked, breathlessly, as they pulled apart, all the while rubbing himself against Sylar's thigh, "is that blindfold?"

With a smirk, Sylar reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

***

Peter was doodling random things on his hand – there being no scraps of paper nearby – when Hesam turned to him and asked, "Do you have wild, kinky sex with that boyfriend of yours?"

Startled, Peter dropped the pen and watched it roll under the seat. "That's...kind of an inappropriate question," he said, cautiously, feeling his cheeks flush.

Hesam snorted. "We're guys. If we'd been girls, I'd be painting your toenails right now while you told me how much you loved your boyfriend. Because we're guys, we talk about sex. It's common sense."

"Why do you ask?" Peter knew that by dodging the question yet again he was just giving Hesam more ammunition, but he couldn't help it. A damn stupid reflex, but there you have it. And anyway, Peter hadn't had a guy friend in years, and couldn't exactly remember what they'd talked about when he did have one. Maybe it had been sex.

"Emma says you do." Out of the corner of his eye, Peter watched him fiddle with a frayed piece of fabric in his sleeve.

"And she would know, obviously," Peter replied, somewhat sarcastically, it has to be admitted.

"So you don't?" Hesam looked him dead in the eye, and so he didn't miss the smile that curved Peter's lips for a second. He crowed, and felt like clapping his hands together. He didn't, because he knew it made him look like a ten year old girl, which he most certainly wasn't. "You do! Ha, I knew it!"

Peter slumped down into his seat. "Only sometimes," he muttered, even though he knew it wouldn't do any good. "Why do you even care?"

"Because you're my friend, and it's good to know you're getting some," Hesam replied, quite serious. "Much better than when you rushed off to save people, leaving me in the lurch." He leaned over and gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "Who knew you just needed to get sexed up, eh?"

Peter gave him a tentative smile, and then leaned over and gave him a – much harder – punch on the arm. Hesam swatted his hand away, rubbing his sore arm. "Serves you right," Peter said, grinning.

"So," Hesam began after some time had passed. Peter glanced over at him. "Is he any good?" And, even though he knew it would probably earn him another punch in the arm, he wriggled his eyebrows in the most suggestive manner he knew.

Surprisingly, Peter didn't actually punch him, which was always good news in Hesam's book. Instead Peter gave him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen, and he actually felt his heart stop in his chest, before it puttered back to life. He suddenly, inexplicably, wanted someone to smile like that because of him. "Yeah," Peter said. "He's good."

Hesam was grateful for the call that came in then, and the need to stop talking and concentrate on the job at hand. Later, just as he was getting off his shift, he spotted Emma. Chucking on his jacket, he walked over to her.

She turned at his approach and smiled at him. "Hey," she began, only to be unable to finish the remainder of her sentence when Hesam wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a soft, slow kiss. When they pulled apart, she was still smiling at him the way she always did, and he thought that this was maybe what he'd been missing all along. He kissed her again, just because he could.

Peter walked out of the building, a bemused smile on his face. Sylar was leaning up against a wall nearby and titled his head when he caught sight of him, asking a silent question. "Hesam and Emma," Peter told him. "Did you know...?" He couldn't really complete the question.

Sylar's eyebrows rose, so obviously that was a question answered. "Really?" he asked, suddenly grinning. Peter couldn't help but grin back.

"Yeah," Peter replied, and took his hand.

***

Gretchen opened the door. "Sylar!" she exclaimed, actually sounding happy to see him for some odd reason he could not fathom. He took a step back in case it was contagious. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Ah, is Claire around?" he asked, as she stepped back and beckoned him inside.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, actually sounding it. Sylar wondered if she was messing with him. "She just left. But she'll be back in a minute if you want to wait..." She left the tail of her sentence hanging, and when he nodded, she smiled and gave a firm nod in return.

"Right," she said, pulling him over to sit on her bed. "You just sit here, make yourself comfortable, and I'll be right back, okay?" She gave him what was supposed to be a reassuring smile and then walked out the door to destinations unknown, her brown hair swishing behind her.

Sylar raised an eyebrow to the room at large, not sure exactly why he was doing it, and not caring.

Half an hour later, Claire opened the door, pulling her shoulder bag off and dumping it on her bed without once looking around the room. And then she looked up, and froze. Her hand scrambled for a weapon and came up with, coincidentally, a pencil. She held it toward him threateningly. He flinched, and his eye gave a sympathetic twinge.

"What are you doing here?" she asked after a moment of silence. She didn't lower the pencil. "Where's Gretchen?"

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the door. "She left, said she'd be right back," he replied slowly, eyeing the pencil. "I came to ask you something." When she still didn't lower the pencil, the suspicion in her gaze actually rocketing up a few notches, he sighed and raised his hands slowly into the air, a gesture that wasn't as reassuring as it would have been in someone without his abilities. "Please lower the pencil, Claire. I'm not going to hurt you. I've changed, and you know it."

"Yeah, sure," Claire said, disbelief colouring her voice. She lowered the pencil though. With a sigh, she sat down on her bed. "I don't think I'll ever believe that." And she knew she didn't miss the flash of disappointment in his eyes. She shook her head inwardly. Really, it was hard keeping all this anger and hatred together when he was there and she looked at the facts. Really hard. No wonder Peter had fallen.

"So what did you want to ask me?" she asked, instead of listening to the part of her that wanted to tell him to fuck off and never come back.

"Do you approve...?" He shook his head, and began again. "Do you mind that Peter and I are...dating?"

She gave him the most incredulous look she could muster up on such short notice, and then snorted. "Really?" she gasped, tried to cover a giggle and failed. She slapped a hand over her mouth as the giggle escaped, effectively silencing it. "Wow. Yeah, you've changed. Like whoa."

He immediately looked insulted (and was that a little embarrassment? Yeah, that's a wow), but she managed to interrupt him before he said anything. "You want my approval? Fine, take it. He's good for you, and even though it pains me to say this, I have talked to Emma and can honestly, albeit reluctantly, say that you're good for him." She winced. "God, I feel like I'm betraying some kind of fundamental law by saying that."

There was a moment of silence.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Claire gaped at him. She thought she'd seen and heard it all. Apparently not. Somehow the world had gone and turned upside down on her, and she hadn't even noticed. Okay, maybe she'd noticed it a little, but whoa. She felt a bit dizzy.

"You better get going," she said, wondering if the dizziness was apparent in her tone. He nodded and left, passing Gretchen on the way out. She smiled at him and then made her way into the room.

"Should I ask?" Gretchen said, raising an eyebrow.

Claire fell back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. "No, it was just too weird."

"Well, he _is_ weird so that's understandable."

Claire laughed, and then beckoned to Gretchen to join her on the bed. Gretchen happily complied.

Sylar arrived home to find Peter sitting in front of the TV, watching some mindless reality show. He switched it off when he heard the door open, twisting his head around and throwing an arm over the back of the sofa. Peter grinned at him when Sylar joined him on the sofa.

"Where were you?" Peter asked, shifting close enough so that he could press soft kisses up Sylar's neck. Sylar groaned and pulled him into his arms.

"I went to see Claire," he mumbled, silencing any of Peter's surprised protests with a kiss, deep and hot and burning. When they finally parted, Sylar was happy to note that Peter wouldn't be able to ask any more questions for a while.

Or so he thought. Peter poked him in the chest, dispelling him of this notion. "Why did you go see Claire?"

"I...wanted to ask if she minded that we were dating," Sylar said, finally, grudgingly.

Peter was silent. "And did she?"

"No," Sylar replied, and didn't miss the relief on Peter's face. "Apparently she approves. She laughed at me."

Peter was grinning, as though hearing his niece had laughed at his boyfriend was the best news he'd had in years. "Well, you are hilarious."

"So you keep telling me."

Peter smiled. "Aww, did I just bruise your ego again, baby? Here, let me kiss it better." He leaned forward and smoothed Sylar's frown away with a kiss, before dragging his mouth over Sylar's and keeping it there. Sylar wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer until there was no space between them.

***

Sylar stormed through the door to their apartment, and heard Peter follow him, slamming the door behind him. The sound it made was so loud and definite it almost made the very walls shake. He spun around to face Peter, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "You," he began.

"I wasn't flirting with her, for fuck sakes!" Peter interrupted. "How many times do I have to tell you that? Once more? Okay, fine – I wasn't flirting with her! There, you happy now?"

"You might not have noticed it," Sylar snarled, his bottom lip curling, once Peter had stopped talking, "but she was all over you, and you didn't even try to put a stop to it. You even looked like you kind of liked it! What am I supposed to think?"

Peter took two deliberate steps forward until they were only a few inches apart. "You," he hissed, poking Sylar hard in the chest, "don't know what you're talking about. She wasn't all over me, not in the way you mean anyway. For your information, that's how it goes when you dance with someone, you bastard! But of course you wouldn't know that, since you've never danced with anyone in your entire life." Peter poked him again, even harder this time. "And you wouldn't even consider dancing with me, your _boyfriend_, so who else was I going to dance with? Myself?"

"Yes," Sylar replied, sounding calm and unfazed, and looking it. Peter growled and shoved him, hard. Sylar stumbled backward and took a few seconds to regain his balance. When he did, he glanced at Peter, his glare cold and almost inhuman. "And you just took me at my word, unlike every other time you've asked me to do something. You made a beeline for her, of all people, that _slut, _and you just let her drape herself all over you? Oh, yeah, Peter, it's really all my fault for saying no."

"Oh, so you just expect me to _not _respect your wishes?" Peter snorted. "Be someone I'm not?"

Sylar was suddenly in his face, gripping Peter's arm, his fingernails digging in painfully. "You've never had any problem with it before," he snarled, "You just take and take and take, with only the thinnest idea of consent. I didn't ask for you to be my friend, I didn't ask for you to take it upon yourself to reform me, but oh no, Peter Petrelli has to save everyone, even the big bad wolf, the man who murdered his brother!" On the last word, he twisted Peter's arm behind his back and shoved him into the door. "Did you ever think," he whispered in Peter's ear, his voice unnaturally soft after all of the yelling he'd done, "that maybe I liked who I was before this? Before you turned me into this pathetic _thing_, who only thinks about how much he _loves _you and how lucky he is that you've taken _pity _on him..."

Without warning, Sylar stepped away, leaving Peter to steady himself against the door before turning slowly around. "Well, hell," Peter said. "I love you too, honey."

Sylar choked back something that sounded suspiciously like a sob and Peter was shoved back into the door again, except Sylar's hands were gentle where they had once been rough. "Don't _do _that, Peter, please," he whispered, his breath warm against Peter's skin, and Peter couldn't help but close his eyes and breathe in Sylar's scent, before grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him close enough to press their foreheads together. "Don't lie to me," Sylar said quietly.

"But I'm not lying," Peter insisted, caressing as much skin as he could find. "I love you so much, Sylar, Gabriel, whatever you want to call yourself. I've tried to stop it, I really have, because it's dangerous and frightening and you are who you are, but I can't. I can't," he repeated softly. "I love you."

And then Sylar's mouth was on his, his hands tangling in Peter's hair, pushing him closer, pushing himself closer until he all but had Peter trapped against the door. "I love you too," Sylar mumbled against Peter's mouth, before pressing even closer, closing up every single inch of space between them, mouth against mouth, skin against skin.

Sylar tried to push him up the door with physical strength alone, and when that failed, he belatedly realised that there was another way to go about this, and why hadn't he thought of it before, idiot? Telekinetically pushing Peter up the door meant Peter's hands scrambling for purchase in his clothing, fingernails digging into skin, and then Peter's legs were wrapped around his waist. They were still kissing, except now Sylar had to tilt his head upward, which was definitely a novel experience and one he wouldn't tire of quickly – or Peter, for that matter, if the way he moaned was any judge.

He knew if he backed up and tried to take Peter to the bed, he'd most likely drop Peter, even with the added help of telekinesis, because concentrating on anything except kissing him was damned near impossible. He tried anyway, and was half way there when he tripped over some strange, unknown object and, cursing its very existence, fell backward, taking Peter with him. The abrupt movement broke the prolonged kiss and Sylar felt like a complete idiot lying on his back, trying to kick the offensive object away, with Peter looking down at him, as though he found him both hilarious and adorable at the same time.

"Fuck," he muttered and gave the object one last kick, which thankfully sent it skittering across the floor. And now Peter was laughing at him, the bastard. He glared up at him. "Shut up," he said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, Sylar," Peter gasped, wiping what Sylar was mortified to realise were tears of laughter off his face. "You're hilarious." Sylar opened his mouth to argue that, despite evidence to the contrary, he was definitely _not _hilarious, and then Peter leaned down and captured his mouth, effectively silencing all of his protests, before sliding down until they were chest to chest.

Peter sighed as he pulled away, curling around him and nestling his head on Sylar's shoulder. "So how was that for our first fight?" he asked, stretching up toward skin he could press light kisses to.

"Peter, that wasn't our first fight," Sylar said reasonably, one hand pushing under Peter's shirt to stroke at his stomach. Peter shuddered against his touch and the kisses he was giving Sylar's throat became more open-mouthed and used far more tongue.

"Our first big fight then," Peter replied, his voice slightly muffled. And then he stopped kissing Sylar's skin and instead glanced up to Sylar's face, his gaze directed at the ceiling. "I wasn't flirting with her, you know," he added softly.

Sylar looked at him then, gazing through dark eyelashes.

Peter hesitated. "Well, maybe a little."

And then suddenly, without any warning, Peter was on his back, staring up at Sylar who was looming over him, all dark and mysterious and gorgeous_. And all his, _a part of him whispered. The sight fairly took his breath away. "And you were _jealous,_" he said, actually savouring the word even though normally this kind of behaviour would have led to serious harm being done on his person.

"You're mine," Sylar said calmly, as though he hadn't gone postal at him for some innocent (well, on his side anyway) flirting not moments ago.

"Yes," Peter agreed, draping his arms around Sylar's neck. "I am," he whispered in Sylar's ear once he was close enough. "And you're mine."

Sylar kissed him then, hungrily, needy and desperate, his hands roaming over every inch of skin he could find, ripping clothing out of the way when they hindered his endeavours. He actually laughed, albeit breathy and soft and warm against his skin, when Peter grumbled that the shirt he'd just torn off had been his favourite, really, there'd been no other like it, and Sylar promised – promised like he'd make it possible if it wasn't already so – he'd buy him a new one, the same colour and brand and style. Now Peter was laughing, and then he was kissing him back as hungrily and desperately as he had been kissed.

***

Sylar groaned and buried his face deeper into the pillow. "I think you broke me," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Don't worry," Peter purred, kissing his shoulder before licking a stripe up the back of his neck. Sylar groaned again, and Peter grinned. "I can fix you," he whispered, sliding his hand slowly over Sylar's back. "Not that you really need fixing," he added, and Sylar turned his head to smile at him. "You're fine just the way you are."

Sylar grinned and, turning completely onto his back, pulled Peter on top of him. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"I'm counting on it," Peter said softly, and kissed him.

* * *

**Well, this turned into a monster of a story. At first it was just that first part, but then it kind of...morphed and changed shape, turning into this blob of sappy sappiness. Yay! **

**Ahem. That is all.**

**Review please. **


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